


The Watchmakers

by amanounmei



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: BDSM, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Scissoring, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanounmei/pseuds/amanounmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quest for the Knights of Cybertron takes the crew of the Lost Light to a planet with mysterious traces of what could be an ancient civilization, or possibly a link to the Knights themselves.</p><p>While trying to focus on the job at hand, Cyclonus struggles with thoughts and emotions he cannot seem to understand.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Major thanks and shoutout to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanita">Iwanita</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenbeetch/pseuds/yog-sothoth">Yoggie</a> for beta reading the story for me.</b></p><p> </p><p>    <i>(Tags will be added as the story progresses to avoid spoilers.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As a warrior, Cyclonus was frequently tasked with guarding others, be it on the ship or outside. He did not much mind being a bodyguard, since that was almost all he knew back in the glorious days of Nova Prime.

Glorious until the energies of the cursed Dead Universe twisted him into becoming a darker mech, almost like a backwards reflection of him from behind a mirror with shattered glass. Before those dark forces twisted all of them, Scourge, Galvatron, Jhiaxus. Many claimed that those great people have been such... monsters long before the Heart of Darkness could reach for any of them, but Cyclonus did not believe them. Galvatron was a hero, a legend; the one to first unite all the peoples of Cybertron into one nation. To first turn all into one and lay the foundations for a golden age.

There was no way Galvatron could have been the monster that Cyclonus got to see all the way in the planet’s core.

He thought about it a lot lately. Being a bodyguard was one thing, but Rodimus kept assigning him to check in on the prisoner more and more often. Why, he had no clue. Maybe he did something to upset either of the captains, or maybe the first officer. Perhaps his latest report used the wrong font and Ultra Magnus threw a hissy fit, the compulsive little gnome. Whatever the case Cyclonus was forced to look at the prisoner time and time again, and his thoughts raced.

Brainstorm was a Decepticon. No one realized it because he played his part extremely well. That is, he had no friends but one, to whom he warmed up long before he started spying on the Autobots. Cyclonus had to commend the mech’s skills at what he did, be it espionage or science. But one detail eluded him. Was Brainstorm not loyal to the Decepticon cause? Why would he turn on his own comrades in an attempt to completely erase them from reality?

Love, apparently. Brainstorm was ready to sacrifice everyone and everything to save one mech, one that he loved, and seeing someone else suffer the same led him to going a few steps further. To saving everyone that was lost to that senseless war. Why did that make sense, though? Quark never had any feelings for him. Had Brainstorm saved him he would still remain where he started. Perhaps not alone, but not loved, like he wished to be. And still he went ahead with his ludicrous plan.

Someone once said love is a drug. Maybe they were right. Maybe no matter the circumstances you keep wanting it, once you taste it. Few Cybertronians did, Cyclonus not being one of them, so he really could not tell. He cared about people, of course he did, but he had no real idea whether any of those cases were truly love or not. Whether he cared enough to name any of them his Conjunx Endura.

In fact, in the one case he thought was closest to love he never got a chance to consider that final step.

With all that plaguing his mind, and his thoughts continually returning to that one mech, he could finally retire to his hab suite. He expected his room mate to already be there, and sure enough, the little guy was sitting cross-legged on his berth, fumbling with something that looked like it needed assembly.

“Cyclonus!” Tailgate chirped at him, his tone as cheerful as ever.

The flier could not help but smile. The sincerity of that happiness alone was enough to force him to show his feelings. Right there sat the only one who managed to break through the defences millions of years in another universe erected around him, and who managed it with such incredible ease Cyclonus was almost afraid.

“What are you building?” he asked, sitting on his own recharge berth and watching the other mech fumbling with the little parts.

“Oh, I told Rung I like his collection and he said I can assemble one model for him!”

The jet cocked his head, a slight frown on his face. There were more parts apart than together. “Harder than it looks, isn’t it?”

Tailgate huffed. “Noooo,” he said, drawing the word out. “I only just started.”

Cyclonus could not hold a short chuckle. “Of course. Then you clearly don’t need my help.”

The minibot paused, looking at all those tiny bits laid out on the berth in front of him in no apparent order, and without a clear pattern. “Um...” he said, trying to make it sound much more thoughtful than it really was. “... I suppose you can help me put the glue on.”

With a small shake of his head, and a smile on his face, Cyclonus reached for what he thought should go onto the model and placed it by the small assembly of bits, searching for the proper spot.

His room mate then looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I almost forgot.”

Judging by how cheerful and carefree the words came out, the jet briefly wondered whether he wanted to hear the rest or not. Usually when Tailgate addressed him in this overly sweet tone he wanted something. Sometimes to inform him of something that was already underway.

“There’s a movie night tomorrow...”

There it was.

“And I wanted us to host it.”

Cyclonus heaved a small sigh, his cooling vents just slightly louder for that split second. Tailgate almost immediately raised his hands, likely to say something about it not being a problem and that he would tell Rewind that they cannot host this time and that he will attend anyway. But before he managed to do that, the flier spoke.

“Alright,” was all he said, but it proved enough to silence the chatty minibot completely.

“... It is?” the smaller mech asked, his optics starting to spark under the protective visor. And there it was, that most innocent of expressions, that hopeful stare that not even the most unbreakable of Cybertronians could resist.

“Yes,” Cyclonus said with a nod of his head. Tailgate had a way of making him agree to things without much effort, that aforementioned expression being the proverbial secret weapon. Little did he know, however, that this time it was not just about him.

The jet did a lot of thinking on his guard duties. Brainstorm was not exactly talkative, so all Cyclonus had as company were his own thoughts. So few were in love, and how many of them did not suffer because of it?

Rewind suffered. More than anyone should. It was not the same Rewind he met when the Lost Light took off, even though technically, by obscure laws of the universe, he was. This Rewind saw the entire crew slaughtered with unmatched cruelty, and his own Conjunx Endura among them, dying right in front of his optics. He deserved some reprieve, a little bit of happiness.

And Cyclonus had to admit that love fascinated him more by the day. He wanted to understand his own feelings, and chose to do so through observation first. Perhaps there were better ways, but if they involved him talking to others, he rather not. Rung would surely have a lot to say on this topic, but how was someone else supposed to know what another was feeling?

As the two of them sat there matching bits of the model together, Cyclonus struggled to focus on it instead of thinking about Tailgate or Galvatron.

 

Movie night turned out somewhat unexpected.

Rewind attended with his sparkmate, of course, but Cyclonus did not expect other guests to arrive. Fortunately there were only three, so with a little arranging they were able to fit into the suite. Getaway seated himself behind Tailgate, since he was the largest of the group and could obscure someone else's view. But more surprisingly Sunstreaker came along, his pet Bob skittering in after him. The Insecticon, of course, was not there to watch; he just accompanied his best friend and owner, and curled up nearby as the show started.

Rewind introduced it as an “action movie”, as always from planet Earth. It became a sort of tradition for them to view Earth cinema, as it provided a variety of types and usually really good entertainment. Cyclonus, however, could barely – and sometimes not – stop himself from commenting on the scenes of battle, and duels;  the characters talked too much and the blows made no sense, and that last minute rescue seemed even less probable than that time they found the cure for cybercrosis.  The others tried to ignore him, save for Tailgate, who only smiled behind his faceplate at how his room mate paid very close attention.

And then came the scene where the two heroes, male and female, declared love for each other. There it was again, love. It seemed to surround Cyclonus from all sides recently, but this one was different. He could not really understand the gestures, or why it mattered that the people were of different genders. Surprisingly enough Sunstreaker tried to explain it to him, and even corrected Rewind when he tried to chip in. How he knew so much about it, and in such detail, remained a mystery as no one dared ask. And the Lamborghini himself did not appear too eager to relive that time he had a human in his head.

Of course there were the ship's two love birds, holding hands all throughout the session. They did not even need to say anything to get on Cyclonus' nerves, but recently everything seemed to do that with remarkable ease, so he tried his best not to hold it against them. Yet, by the end of the movie he was almost ready to excuse himself and just leave.

He did not, however, and was treated to an experimental, awkward kiss between Chromedome and Rewind that made his Spark twitch.

 

Cyclonus dreamed often.

Most of the time he would not even remember what the dream was about. Sometimes he would relive scenes from his past, from the glorious days of shining Tetrahex through the cheers as they boarded the Ark, to the horrors of the Dead Universe and the betrayal of his beloved lord.

Beloved?

He knew that Conjunx Endurae sometimes interfaced, and that in an odd coincidence it was hardly any different from what humans allegedly did to make offspring. He knew the technical side and the basics behind it, but he himself never had a chance nor the need to do it. What, irritatingly enough, did not stop interfacing from appearing in his dreams. From time to time he would see himself beneath another mech, would feel hands on himself and a weird, not unpleasant sensation in his groin. Why were mechanical lifeforms who did not breed like organics have pieces suited for making offspring, he would have wondered once he woke. He would also wonder who the mech in his dreams was.

There seemed to be many, but a few of them he could now recognize as Galvatron.

 

When he onlined, Tailgate was not there.

He got up reluctantly, wondering if it was really Galvatron that he saw and what it all meant. Were his feelings for his former lord really breaching that line between friend and lover? If so, why was he not feeling the same desire outside of his dreams? And why did he start seeing all that when he was no longer beside Galvatron?

He doubted anyone could answer those questions for him; not even Rung, despite his remarkable success in psychoanalysis. Not that Cyclonus was willing to talk to him about it. It occurred to him to tell Tailgate, but the little mech missed quite literally his entire life, having actually lived only a few years out of six million. There was no way he could tell Cyclonus any more than he already knew.

He headed for the bridge, hoping to be given some sort of task that would help him focus on anything other than those nagging thoughts. He had quite enough of them, even though he knew they would not go away just like that. There remained, however, a chance that Rodimus would tell him to go check on Brainstorm again, in which case the purple jet was ready to tell him what he thought about him to his face. Insulting one's captain was not a good idea, unless the captain was someone with such low self-esteem as this one's. But then again maybe he would finally be given something else to do.

When the doors to the bridge slid open before him, he saw Rodimus and Megatron both look his way. They must have been facing each other moments before he came in, and judging by both their stern expressions, adorned by frowns of various depth, they were arguing. Again. Much to the displeasure of Ultra Magnus and Perceptor, who both sat by the ship's consoles.

“Did you want anything?” Megatron asked, his voice incredibly levelled and calm.

“Merely to be useful,” Cyclonus said, meeting the captain's shining optics.

“You just might be,” came a nod, and the ex-Decepticon waved at him to approach a holographic display.

The hologram showed what appeared to be a rather random rock formation, with no distinct pattern or shape to it. He could not tell their colour, much less mineral composition from the imagery, but he could clearly see that something was etched onto their surface. Lines, straight and curved and some points resembling dots, all together forming some sort of glyphs. They could not have been a natural occurrence.

“We scanned these on the surface of the planet below, Landia,” Ultra Magnus said, tearing himself away from his console. “Far as we can tell it's uninhabited.”

Rodimus glanced at the purple flier. “Rewind couldn't recognize these. But you're the specialist on myths and beliefs, do these mean anything to you?”

Cyclonus narrowed his optics slightly as he looked the strange carvings over again and again, sometimes cocking his head as if trying to find a different angle, or walking around the hologram to see if it makes more sense from different perspectives. Something _was_ there, certainly, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Something was familiar about these symbols, but for the life of him he could not place them anywhere in his memories, could not recall whether he saw them before or just something that once looked similar.

“... No,” he finally said, much to everyone's tangible disappointment. “If this is writing, then I can't read it. Such symbols aren't connected to any cult or religion I'm familiar with.”

Megatron shook his head. “Another dead end, then.”

Rodimus immediately turned to him. “We can't just turn away from this. We don't know if this leads to the Knights or not, we're almost literally flying blind here!”

“And how do you propose we investigate this thing?” the other captain waved his hand towards the holographic display, almost hitting Ultra Magnus in the face. “It's a bunch of carved rocks on a dead planet, and no one can even recognize what it says. For all we know it could be a remnant of some long dead civilization and it'll tell us nothing.”

Their attention was quickly attracted by an arm, raised by Perceptor. “I might have a suggestion,” he said, not looking away from the panel he was working at. When his words met with silence, he took it as a cue to continue. “ I have detected certain radiation emanating from this formation, and having compared it to other signatures on this side of the planet I can confidently say that these rocks are not indigenous to Landia.”

“They were brought there,” Cyclonus said, articulating the words slowly.

“Maybe on an asteroid,” Megatron shrugged. “The rocks could've just crashed there by natural means.”

Perceptor turned to them, his face quite blank. “I have tracked the same radiation to ruins of a local civilization. Judging by the images we are able to capture from here its technological advancement was comparable to our own, and I believe it is safe to conclude that they had some sort of connection to the carvings.”

Megatron flung his arms in resignation. “Fine, we'll check it out. Rodimus, grab a crew. I'll want Swerve on it since he's a metallurgist.”

The mech in question narrowed his optics in a small glare. “Since when are you giving me orders?”

“Since when are you arguing with me agreeing with you? Ultra Magnus,” he turned to the officer. “Next time I have a grand idea of escaping the death penalty just shoot me on sight.”

By then Ultra Magnus was rubbing his optics in exasperation, but he said nothing. Sometimes, despite a burning urge to put everyone in their place, it was better to just swallow it even if he was to choke on that urge. He learned that the hard way.

Considering that there was silence again, Rodimus turned to Cyclonus. “We're going to need you on the team because of your area of expertise,” he said, earning himself a simple nod of confirmation. The captain managed a smile. “Then grab your sword and wait for my signal, I'll call you when I have the team ready.”

The jet found it best not to say anything, as he often did, considering that he left the bridge with an atmosphere so thick he could cut it with his sword. So much like the old Ark, really; several senior officers bent on the same goal, but seemingly for different reasons. Galvatron and Nova Prime often argued, like the two captains on the Lost Light... But before the quarrels usually centred on interpretations of readings from the Benzuli Expanse and... and Cyclonus himself.

Nova Prime tended to insult him by claiming he only got on board because the ancient barbarian favoured him, implying quite heavily that there was more between them than a professional relationship of a master and his bodyguard. And Galvatron would always defend his servant vehemently, treating each insult almost personally.

In light of what Cyclonus learned of his feelings recently, that behaviour suddenly seemed to mean so much more.

 

When he returned to the hab suite Tailgate was there, humming to himself. It was the old song that he learned months ago from his room mate, and he still managed to get some notes wrong. But this one time Cyclonus did not bother correcting him, instead heading straight for where he left his great sword resting against a wall.

“Hey!” the minibot chirped. “Where have you been?”

“Called on a mission,” was all the jet said to that. There was no need to get into all the details, and not like he was eager to recount that whole scene from the bridge. He was a mech of few words, and no one knew it better than his only friend. It was also because of that understanding they had that Tailgate chose not to comment on his obviously foul mood.

“Oh,” he said in reply, acknowledging the existence of the mission without prying too hard. But since he, unlike the other one, could not stop himself from talking, he changed the topic: “Do you wanna know where I've been?”

The question was met with a mute stare. Since he heard no objection, and since he knew his room mate really _was_ interested, Tailgate said in a voice coated in sugar: “Getaway asked me out on a date!”

Cyclonus sat down as he felt strength leave his legs.


	2. Chapter 2

"Still angry?" Ultra Magnus asked, frowning at Rodimus. The captain was sitting by a console and looking over the crew manifest for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Or would have seemed if Magnus used these kind of words. The red mech had his optics narrowed slightly and his lips closer tightly together, clearly struggling not to curve downward in a sneer.

“He's not taking the quest seriously,” Rodimus said, not looking away from the list of names. He needed to pick several to take with him down to the planet, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.

The first officer sat down, his expression unchanged. “It's not entirely his quest.”

The captain turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “... Seriously? Isn't finding the Knights of Cybertron the _sole reason_ he's on this ship?”

“Technically,” Ultra Magnus nodded his head slowly. “But face it, who here believes that he actually wants to find them? It's just one huge getaway clause for him. If we don't find them his trial can't continue, and he gets to live his life protected as a prisoner of war.”

“It would be if he was alone in command, but he's not. This is my ship.”

“Drift paid for it.”

Rodimus flung his arms. “Fine, step all over me, why don't you? Everyone else does.”

The first officer heard himself utter a groan. He liked that kid, he really did. But despite not being exactly young  _and_ being his superior, Rodimus acted less maturely than some mechs younger than him.  He was a good kid, though. He really wanted the best for his planet and for those around him; so much, in fact, that even the Matrix of Leadership recognized it. For Magnus it was enough to follow him, even if he needed to scold the leader and even belay some of his commands. The will of the Matrix to him meant more than even the Metrotitan's proclamation of Starscream's greatness, and he was not even religious.

He could only wonder what the believers on board felt about the Matrix.

“Look,” Magnus would have heaved a sigh if his systems allowed for it. “I don't want to bring you down, I'm just saying it like it is. You need to stop taking things so personally.”

Rodimus turned back to the manifest. “Yeah. You're probably right,” he said, his voice somewhat lower than before.  Admitting faults never came easy to him, and he has only done so to a select few. “ I need to relax when this is done.”

And then, much to his officer's dread, his lips curled up in a smirk. “And I know just the thing.”

 

Cyclonus left the hab suite long before being called to the rest of the team. He just could not stay there for very long. He could not look into those sparking, shining optics. Tailgate kept his face hidden, but the smile was audible in his voice and it...

It hurt.

The flier told his room mate how happy he was for him. He patiently listened to the minibot telling him about the date, and  that cheerful excitement made his Spark contract in his chest.  He wished Tailgate all the best in his relationship, and quickly excused himself, saying there were things he still needed to do before heading for the surface.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He continuously called people out on being morons and idiots, yet there he was, having missed the chance of his lifetime because he could not recognize it even though it almost literally bit him in the aft.  The first – the only mech he could completely trust found someone who could appreciate him. Who could give him everything he needed, everything Cyclonus wanted to give, but did not know how.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Finally the team was assembled in the hangar for a quick headcount before boarding a shuttle.  Cyclonus groaned  inwardly when he saw some of them. Swerve, of course, was there since Rodimus demanded his presence due to his experience in metallurgy. It might prove useful when examining the strange rocks and whatnot, but also made the rest quite unhappy that the bar had to be closed. 

A trip to uncover anything to do with history could not go without the greatest database in the Autobot ranks, so Rewind stood there as well. He would also document the entire endeavour as it progressed, ensuring that nothing is missed. But since he was going, so was his sparkmate; Chromedome would never let him leave if the mission was potentially dangerous, and in this unknown sector of space every mission was potentially dangerous.

Whirl. Of course. There was no way he would stay behind, was there? He was known on the ship for virtually only one thing – his fighting skills, and Cyclonus had to admit that fame was well deserved. A watchmaker by passion, in combat Whirl was ruthless, deadly and efficient.  If the unknown could yield threats, he was one of those that could handle them. Cyclonus just hoped that he would be spared comments and remarks about himself, and about Tailgate.

Unexpectedly, both Rodimus and Megatron were there as well, ready to depart.

The mission briefing was short and simple. Rodimus summarized what their scanners found and the images they could produce, underlined their possible connection to the Knights of Cybertron, and had everyone board the shuttle.  Not everyone appeared as excited to investigate the odd symbols as Rewind, to whom every new bit of information was a godsend, but no one spoke against it. Except Swerve, of course. He always spoke even if he had nothing to say, much to Cyclonus' everlasting irritation.

As the shuttle took off, the jet could not help but think how he left the ship while Tailgate was left alone with Getaway.

 

The planet looked just as bad as Cybertron did after the exodus, making the entire team walk its surface in silence.

It was not dark, not even close. The sun rose high and illuminated the ruins unobstructed by no cloud, only the old walls that survived whatever cataclysm befell those people. What remained of the buildings was little more than naked stone and metal alloys, fashioned into walls and beams and all those little decorative bits that somehow remained more or less undamaged. From the looks of it the city had been plundered a long time ago, and whoever did it left nothing that could be of any use – no tools, no household items, nothing that could be sold elsewhere for whatever currency the potential buyers would be using. Curiously, though, there were no bodies – either the citizens abandoned their homes long before the city crumbled, or something much more sinister was in play. Have they all been taken? Rounded up and slaughtered?

With no real trace to follow they wandered around the general area where Perceptor detected the alien radiation, splitting into smaller groups to cover more ground. Cyclonus, of course, somehow ended up paired with Whirl. He stopped caring long ago, especially since their mutual animosity turned to grudging respect. Well, on his part, anyway. Whirl seemed much more enthusiastic about it, almost adamant at becoming actual friends with the old warrior. Why, Cyclonus could only guess, but so far he accepted all the odd remarks and failed jokes with a stone face.

It worked so far. Now, with what he continued to discover about his own feelings – about his _sexuality_ , however odd that word sounded in his head – things started to look different to him. Those teasing comments from Whirl, those unnerving stares from his single optic...

Cyclonus did his best not to look back.

Eventually their search took the entire party to what could have – or must have, in fact – been some sort of municipal or religious complex. The building collapsed almost entirely, leaving only a small part of two of its walls still standing. Its function could only have been determined by its location, right in the centre of the ruins. It did not take very long, however, for Swerve to discover a downward-heading stairwell that had been obscured and obstructed by rubble. Once they cleared it up and headed down, it became clear that whatever was hidden below them had to have some value, historical or otherwise.

The walls around them have been carved into what they could only guess was writing. None of them, not even Rewind, could recognize it. Once in a while between them they could see... illustrations? Carvings made to symbolize something, perhaps depict a scene that was being described by the words around it. But since most of these pictures have faded with time, or possibly damage, it was difficult to tell their meaning for certain. Most commonly, though, there were faces; worn, dusty, scratched faces. Unsurprisingly, Rewind was the only one clearly excited about these findings. He carefully recorded every carving, even if it meant going back up to get the view of the other side of the stairwell and annoying everyone else. Chromedome stayed up with him when the rest went ahead, finally, after a long trek down, reaching a large, decorated chamber.

It was tall, but not incredibly so. The lights that once illuminated it had gone off a long time ago, remaining only empty lamps; they appeared to be carved in stone in a floral shape, even if the technology suggested the light itself came from electricity. The supporting columns were all pentagonal, and there was of course five of them, spread around the chamber to form that same shape. Each side of each column featured a worn carving of a face, different on each side, and seemingly the same ones they saw on the walls of the stairwell. They were all stern and their empty eyes stared ahead almost menacingly.

Between the two columns on the side of the far wall they found something like a statue, or possibly an odd altar. It looked almost like the rocks they scanned from orbit, giving out that same radiation and were covered in the same symbols, unlike the ones in the passage above. The shape was... odd, to say the least. Cylindrical, oblong, and the front cut up to resemble five expressions – stern, happy, thoughtful, angry and blank.

“... This is starting to give me the creeps,” Chromedome said as the party looked over the place.

Megatron turned to Rewind, who was intently studying a column. “Anything?”

“No,” the minibot said, frowning slightly. “I've looked through my database but I got nothing. I'm taping it for future reference mostly...”

Cyclonus stood right in front of the strange cylindrical stone as Swerve examined it with his critical, metallurgist eye. “We should take a sample for Perceptor,” the bartender said, a deep frown adorning his face as he sized the glyphs up one more time.

“Sounds like a plan,” Rodimus said with a nod. “See if you can procure one without actually damaging-”

“No.”

The word came heavy, deep and it echoed in the abandoned hall even though it was hardly large enough for most sounds to reverberate. Everyone turned to Cyclonus the moment they realized it was him who protested in such a blunt, simple manner. The jet's face remained as blank as only he could keep it, even when the first of his two captains cocked his head in clear disapproval.

The old warrior spoke first. “This is a sacred place,” he said. “We have no right to disturb it.”

“You don't believe in whoever or whatever they worshipped here,” Chromedome said with his eyebrows raised. No one on the Lost Light had any doubts about the fact Cyclonus was probably the most religious on board. He never bothered to hide when he prayed, or made references to holy scripture on those rare occasions when he actually talked to other people.

“No,” the flier agreed, his expression unchanged. “But it meant something to someone. We have no right to destroy it.”

“There's no one here,” Whirl said. “And by the looks of it, no one will be here after us.”

A brief moment of silence followed, with Swerve's hand hovering inches away from the eerie altar. Rodimus opened his mouth to respond to all that and cut the discussion short, but Megatron was quicker and spoke first:

“Cyclonus is right,” he said, making Rodimus' jaw slide open a little wider in disbelief.

“Since when are you bothering with this stuff?” Chromedome asked, likely before he could think about possible consequences of offending both his superior officer and a former Decepticon.

The captain tapped his badge. “Since this.”

Swerve pulled his hand back. “Unless we can examine this in a lab all I can tell you is that I've never come across rocks like this.”

Shrugging, Whirl approached the altar and raised his clawed arm to strike at it, in hopes of chipping off a piece. But his wrist was grabbed and held mid-swing, by none other than Megatron himself.

“Wow, you got soft,” Whirl said with little regard for consequences. But in his case there was nothing odd about it. He had seemingly no regard for anyone, probably due to the war and even more due to the humiliating torture that was empurata.

Some people who had their faces and hands taken assumed nothing can hurt them more.

“This isn't about getting soft,” Megatron said, releasing his grip on the soldier's arm. He turned to Chromedome. “And it's not about worship. It's about respect. We're standing in a once-holy place on a dead planet, and it might well be the last remnant of the civilization that built it.” He then looked at Rewind. “Tape everything as thoroughly as you can. Swerve,” he looked at the mech in question, making him involuntarily twitch. “See if you can find a sample by the rocks we located from orbit. It's on the surface, maybe something broke off by itself.”

The bartender blinked a few times. “But that's almost a hundred miles from the ruins...!”

“Fine,” the captain groaned in response, fighting the urge to fling his arms. He had just about enough of everyone complaining about every single thing. “Cyclonus. You're the fastest, you'll go.”

The flier responded with only a single nod and quickly headed back upstairs.

A few moments later, when everyone was sure he was out of earshot, Rewind said: “Anybody else suspect he's got a problem?”

Whirl would have rolled his optic. “Gee, ya _think_?”

“What I mean is-- he's acting even more... withdrawn than usual?”

Chromedome shrugged. “Who can tell with that guy.”

“We're done here,” Megatron announced and headed to the stairwell as well. All conversations that might have continued died in the suffocating thickness of the air around him, the well known _I will take none of your scrap_ tone and attitude. Well known from other people, of course. The ex-Decepticon did not have many opportunities to pull this sort of act off, and if he had he trod more carefully. Maybe he hated insubordination and being barked back at that much.

Or maybe there was more, Chromedome thought to himself as he looked at Megatron leading the way back to the shuttle. Who knew what was going in that head of his? Surely everyone would like to know. They would like to finally find out what he is planning. Why he is enduring all this and pretending to be the good guy and to care about the things he used to dismiss with a wave of a hand. Chromedome never felt an urge so strong to bury his needles in someone's neck to see what they were truly thinking. He never wanted to expose someone's lies this badly.

Because it was all a façade, right? A very good one.

A façade so good it had Megatron save a life or two.

Save Rewind.

What the _slag_ was going on?

They did not have to wait for Cyclonus very long. He showed up at the shuttle with a small, roughly spherical piece of that strange rock. It even had a little cut across it, suggesting it used to be part of some larger carving. It must have either broken off of the larger formation, or there used to be another rock that got somehow crushed into bits. Whatever the case, the jet simply handed it to Swerve and sat down on the farthest seat in the shuttle, only to be briefly glanced at by Rewind.

 

Tailgate could barely contain himself.

He felt like some part of him was going to slip out of him, or like he was about to be turned inside out. He could feel every wire and every power conduit pulse with energon and static and it was unlike anything he could remember from his short life outside the cave in. The sensation of being stretched out so much, of being invaded in places he hardly realized existed.

Words were whispered into his audials and cooling vents whirred against his chest, and there was that echoing, clanking sound of plating against plating. Warmth, then hotness, and all those slick, sticky oils.

He heard himself whimpering and whining and babbling nonsense as he tried to wrap his tiny head around all those sensations. Too much, too quickly, and then there was little more than whiteness and static and that feeling of nothing but pleasure.

Tailgate did not sleep in his hab suite that time.

As he laid himself to recharge against another mech, as he basked in that comfortable closeness and that mind-blowing feeling of being spent to the point of pain, pain that hurt so good... Words raced through his head, nagging and sharp, making it hard for him to clear his mind. He slipped into recharge long after his partner, haunted by that one sentence.

_He could never give this to you._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the porn commence!
> 
> Yes, I use different words for naughty bits than the rest of the fandom. "Spike" makes me think of Witwicky, so no thank you, and "valve" just doesn't make sense. It's either the thing you turn to make water flow from pipes, or a mollusk or barnacle shell. Really, that hardly freaking fits. So you won't find these terms here.

It was amazing how such a small piece of rock could cause such a commotion.

Perceptor more or less demanded to be the one to investigate it, with the use of many multi-syllable words that half of the people around him never even heard before. And while there was never any actual debate about it, Perceptor being the one who discovered the strange minerals in the first place, Nautica argued – vehemently – that there always needs to be a second opinion. And Swerve, who should have been there because of his area of expertise, gladly excused himself based on the fact that before the test results came in, he really had nothing new to say.

So he returned to running his bar, and there was much rejoicing.

Rodimus leaned back against his chair in the lab, arms crossed behind his head. “Anything?”

“This _is_ going to take a while,” the femme sent him a questioning look, adorned with a frown. “You weren't seriously expecting instant answers, were you?”

The captain let out a quiet groan. “One can dream.”

“ You can dream in a location more suited for such activities,” Perceptor said, staring at a screen with numbers flashing across it as  one of those weird reddish lamps ran back and forth above the rock. “I will be sure to inform you once we come across anything.”

Nautica glanced at him over her shoulders. “So in other words the crew gets some time off before  we get things done.”

Rodimus flung his legs off the table and stood. “Fine,” he said, but there was less annoyance in his tone than his body language implied.  “Then you guys have fun with your pet rock,” he said as he left, and a moment later the lab doors closed behind him.

The two scientists exchanged perplexed looks, raising eyebrows at each other.

“Pet rock?”

 

The mission had been far from complicated, or tiring. Even though they needed to walk, drive and fly around quite a while in their blind search, they had been through much worse before. Most of the crew members that were not required to tend to some crucial task on the ship decided to spend their time off at Swerve's, since it was more or less the only place that you  _ could _ do something to socialize. Some joined Rewind on another movie session, others meditated or took to various forms of art in the privacy of their own hab suites.

Cyclonus was not interested in any of that. He tried finding himself something to do alone in his room, but it proved difficult. He could not clear his mind enough to meditate properly. He tried reading some poetry, and then moved to fiction prose, but found himself not focused on it at all and had to reread the same verse or sentence twice or even three times.  He briefly thought about singing, but it seemed kind of pointless without anyone to listen.

Without anyone to sing along with him.

Somewhere on the way he must have dozed off, because he could not remember much of the past hour. He blinked his optics online slowly, bit by bit realizing that he was feeling... odd. Hot, as if his cooling systems could not keep up with him. A little shift of his position, a lazy motion, was enough to make it very apparent what that heat was.

His codpiece must have opened while he slept.

He laid there for a longer moment, unsure what to do. He knew exactly what he _could_ do, and what such a reaction from his body meant. Every Cybertronian knew, but so few actually experienced it that it took Cyclonus a very long moment to remember what he was taught.

But... but why was it happening? He was, essentially, a robot. He realized that. A mechanical life form that had so little to do with organic processes. Why were such parts even _there_?

Driven by some sort of unconscious curiosity, or perhaps primal urges he was only just beginning to understand, he moved a hand down his own body. The claws stung just a little bit, not enough to leave scratches, but enough to have him shivering.

The touch to his pleasure unit sent a jolt of foreign electricity through his frame, and he felt that odd part twitch as he ran the fingers along it. Top to bottom, bottom to top, then back down again... The heat increased with each gentle move, and he felt... wet?

The interfacing port below was leaking lubricants and staining both Cyclonus and the berth. Hearing his cooling vents speed up to keep up with his arousal, he slowly traced the outer wiring that formed his port. It was slick with the fluids and the newfound sensations left him moaning. He never heard himself moan, not in pain, not anything else.

One of his fingers found its way between those wires, probing the tightness-

Cyclonus withdrew his hand as if struck by lightning. What was he doing? What could have possibly tempted him to such actions?

Intimacy was sacred. There was no other purpose for interfacing parts than to enjoy them with your closest, with your Conjunx Endura. That was what they said. That was what Primus intended. There was no other reason for any of this to exist.

Ignoring the lubricants still staining his hand, the old warrior got up onto his knees and prayed.

 

It took a bit of asking around, but Rodimus finally found out that Ultra Magnus excused himself to his quarters for rest and recharge. And when the door did not open to him after several knocks, the captain used his override to slip in quietly.

The Magnus armour was sitting in a corner, its optics offline and chest left open after its operator laid himself down to rest on his berth.

Minimus was... adorable. Even when one realized that he was in fact the strict and borderline obsessive-compulsive Ultra Magnus, and that his personality outside of the armour did not change one bit... Well, there was just something about that tiny frame of his.

Rodimus sat down on the berth, watching his first officer sleep peacefully, when quite suddenly Ambus rose from his recharge.

“.... What?” he asked somewhat sleepily. “What are you doing here...?”

“Sorry,” the captain gave him a small smile. “Just... wanted to talk to you in private.”

The smaller mech nodded, rubbing his optics. “Alright. But next time just comm me to wake me up.”

Rodimus nodded. “I've been thinking-”

Without as much as a blink, Minimus interrupted him: “That's a first.”

“... When did you grow a sense of humour?”

“That was funny?”

The other mech rolled his optics. “Figures. Look, things have been going on. You're stressed – you always seem stressed – I'm stressed – we both need to relax.”

The minibot finally sat up. “Like back on Hedonia?”

Rodimus did not hold a grin. The others told him just how... talkative the otherwise strict officer got, and how he poured his Spark out without realizing it. Must have been quite a show. But once he realized that he was clearly upsetting Magnus, judging by the frown, he said: “No one's getting you drunk.”

“Then what do you sug-”

Minimus cut off when he felt fingers brush against his thigh, and flinched away from them on instinct.

“Easy,” the captain smiled. “I really think both of us could use some of that.”

“Just like that?” Ambus asked, his tone significantly less firm.

“We've known each other for a while...” Rodimus took a tiny hand in his and felt it shiver ever so slightly. “How much more can we learn about each other?”

The question was answered with a frown. “Well... considering how long you've known Magnus and not Minimus...”

There was a pause, and then the younger mech rolled his optics. “Are you suggesting there are more secrets you're keeping from us?”

“That's not- look,” Minimus looked down, but quickly raised his head again. “It's this supposed to be reserved for Endurae? People sworn to each other...?”

The reply did not come immediately, for the captain needed to ponder what he was to say to that. Of course the strict and withdrawn Ultra Magnus, famous for his lack of a social life, would be a virgin. There was no way he got close enough to anyone to get that far.

Time to remedy that.

“Not necessarily,” Rodimus finally said. “There's nothing wrong with doing it with people who aren't Conjuges.”

It was the minibot's turn to hold his response as he gave in to his thoughts. Of course he would hesitate; not only was his alter ego, Ultra Magnus, known mostly for not having any friends, his lost brother Dominus wrote a lengthy work detailing how pleasure was nothing more than a distraction from greater things. By which he meant philosophy, science in its broadest sense, the romantic pursuit of mysteries from the past, and, of course, active striving for a better future. It followed that such a great mech's only brother would have similar ideas; otherwise why would he focus on his work more than anything else, and why would he join the Lost Light if he did not believe they could find the Knights of Cybertron?

After all, Dominus was looking for Luna-1, and the Lost Light found it.

Magnus finally looked up at his captain, having seemingly made up his mind... and deciding against what everyone thought about him. “Alright,” he said. “I... take it you know what to do?”

“Oh, I do,” Rodimus gave him a small smirk. “And I tried some things I kinda borrowed from Earth. Oh, don't worry, I'll be gentle.”

And with that he pulled the smaller mech to himself rather suddenly and pressed their mouths together.

Minimus stiffened. He knew what it was, and what it meant. Humans did it frequently back on Earth, and often in the presence of other people. He never paid it much attention or gave it much thought, but... but there was something nice about it. The way those heated lips pressed against his, that soft tongue invading his mouth and the feeling of another mech closer to him than anyone before...

There was a faint click as his codpiece opened, and he felt his cheeks heat up with sensations he never even thought about. He did not even know how to feel about any of that, how to fell about--

-about the fingers trailing his pleasure unit, and teasing the moistening wires below it.

“Rodimus...” he heard himself say, his voice a little... husky?

“You are so cute...” the captain smiled, focusing his ministrations mostly on that throbbing, eager shaft. The reactions to each gentle stroke kept getting louder and more wanton, and soon drops of clear liquid flowed from the tip. Minimus either did not bother holding back, or he did not know how to.

Soon, Rodimus was kissing over his lover's neck, his hand now trailing the outer wiring of the slick interfacing port, a finger pressing in between them every now and then.

The touch to all those little sensory nodes on Ambus' tiny frame and inside his virgin port sent jolts of intense pleasure through him, making his body shiver and tremble and arch under all those uncontrollable sensations.

“Rodi-mus...” he managed, words barely leaving his mouth. He could not focus. It was too much. He loved it, but it was too much...

The captain stopped kissing his neck for a moment to smile. “Good, isn't it?”

The officer responded with a nod. “But aren't you... ah... I mean... what about you?”

He was briefly silenced with a kiss. “Do you trust me?”

Minimus blinked quickly. It took him a moment to confirm the perhaps not entirely obvious answer with a husky “yes”.

The younger mech withdrew, leaving his lover feeling strangely empty, and wishing for more. And more he got, when somehow – he was not sure how they were positioned, or what exactly his lover did – he felt something press against his port. There was moisture of their mixed lubricants, the softness or wires against wires and gentle friction against that most sensitive sensor node under his unit.

Ambus looked at the other's face, and found it beautiful. That soft blush, the lips slightly parted, sparking optics looking right back at him-

The world went white as a sudden surge of electricity washed over him, shaking his entire frame violently. He felt heat in both his port and his unit, and then over himself as he released onto his own chest. He could not tell when Rodimus came, adding to the mess already on his body, the world still blurry as he struggled to gather his thoughts.

A soft kiss brought him back from his reverie, and gentle arms embraced him as the captain laid down next to him. Minimus felt the urge to cuddle up against him, just to steal just a bit more of that wonderful warmth, but instead he started pulling away.

The captain frowned. “Wha...?”

“I need to wash,” Magnus said, still finding it difficult to speak.

Rodimus pulled him back to himself. “In a moment...” he mumbled, pressing the minibot against his chest in an almost protective hug. “We'll wash together, just... stay here a moment longer.”

Minimus did not resist.

 

The rows of data continued to fill up the screen, and none of it was useful so far. Perhaps in some ways it would be, maybe later, when and if it turns out they need the exact mineral composition of the rock, its approximate age, exact measurements and the depth of the carvings, even in percentages relative to its size. They managed to isolate the exact radiation it gave out, and determine that it was not lethal to Cybertronian biology, even if it could cause some discomfort such as slight Spark contractions, minimal decrease of fuel efficiency or sometimes random surges in arms and legs. Nothing to be concerned about, really, since the effects would most likely not last long after removing the source of radiation from one's presence.

Nautica wished it would stop at that moment, though, because the static in her extremities made it difficult to focus at times. She wondered if Perceptor experienced any side effects, since he hardly betrayed anything with his stone face fixed on a datapad where he was apparently running some simulation or doing calculations or something along those lines.

She then blinked, moving her optics back up to some of the data she had before her. And blinked again.

How could they have assumed that they are not getting what they want? The radiation signature already led them to a different place that had these same rocks, so in the event they could pick it up they could follow it to other such places. And now that they knew exactly what the signature was, and could pinpoint its sources much better, isolating it among all other readings would be much easier now.

The mineral composition should point them towards this rock's celestial body of origin, or at least narrow down the search area. She started up an algorithm that would cross-reference this specific composition with what they had in their database, in hopes that there was something in it that could direct them towards their next destination. As the program ran, comparing the input data to every entry it had on the topic, Nautica turned her attention to one last piece of information that she would need.

The age of the rock. It had carbon in it, which could suggest the planet it came from had at least the building blocks of organic life on it, and chances were that it had actual life. But radiometric dating put it at around fourteen to fourteen and a half million years ago. So whatever took it off its place of origin was really, _really_ old even by Cybertronian standards. And what could it have been? A chunk of the planet chipped off and flew away, perhaps as a result of a collision with a meteor?

Or perhaps it was moved off-world on purpose? But if yes, who did it, and most importantly why?

She hoped the carvings would give her a clue, but they really did not give her much to work with. There was no way for her to tell when they were made, so she could not be sure whether the rock had been decorated on its original planet, or after arriving on Landia. She could have sworn that her brain, overloaded with data she tried to take in all at once, struggled to tell her that she had indeed seen something like this before, or something very similar to this, or something that appeared similar to something similar to this, but... She just could not put her finger on it. The symbols meant something, and judging by what the team found in the underground temple, it was writing, with most likely religious meaning.

As the algorithm beeped to alert her to possible points of origin, her optics widened in realization. She _had_ seen something like this before.

She stood bolt upright. “Oh, sweet Solus Prime!” she said, instantly gaining the attention of Perceptor, who still did not look too fascinated.

“Found something?” he asked flatly.

Nautica pointed at the three possible destinations the program returned. “Yes!” she grinned. “I know where we're going and I think I know why!”

The mech put the datapad down, nodding. Without waiting for his permission, she continued, her voice increasingly heated: “There are only three planets where this particular combination of minerals exists. Well, that we know of. They're spread out but we can get to each of them rather easily if we plot the course carefully but that's not the point I should be telling Rodimus about this part,” she paused, inhaling to help her cooling systems catch up. “Okay... Look, I finally remembered where I've seen these symbols.”

Perceptor frowned slightly, which in itself was an achievement. He hardly ever showed any kind of emotion, or any kind of reaction, at least in a lab setting where nothing blew up.

“There are references to them in Camien beliefs!”

“... And you remembered that just now?”

The femme paused, narrowing her optics into a glare. “Do I look like Rewind to you? I can't access everything in my brain at will, you know. Pretty sure you can't either.”

He shook his head slightly in what felt like an exasperated manner. Nautica, however, decided to greet that with a small smirk.

“Okay, no problem. I'll go work on this with Brainstorm now that he's out of-”

“So what are those beliefs you mentioned?” Perceptor cut in, making her grin widen in triumph. Of course he kept that almost perfectly stone face of his, but just a mention of the other brilliant scientist of the crew was enough to have him at least feign interest. Hopefully she could finally get some sort of backup from him.

She brought her hands together. “Right! See, there's... things on Caminus. Like _on_ Caminus. Carvings predating the first hot spot, so we sort of just assumed they've been there since Solus Prime took the Titan away...”

He cocked his head ever so slightly.

Nautica looked at the odd rock they have been so carefully studying. “Some of them looked kind of like the writing the team found. There have been faces,” she raised her eyebrows, looking at Perceptor and finding no signs of anything on it. “We documented only two distinct ones over the years of studies, but they are completely different to what Rewind recorded down in that temple. And each had a different emotion.”

Finally, the other scientist allowed himself to show something akin to surprise, judging by how his optics sparked for a fraction of a second, and widened so slightly one could only notice if they were watching at the time. “Were you able to translate any of the writings?”

She shook her head. “There's too many hypotheses to tell for sure what the carvings said. You saw for yourself they're unlike anything anyone ever saw. We only managed to get a few words, and that's just because they were carved in that same writing on the Forge of Solus Prime.”

The mech's shoulders seemed to sag a little. “And you honestly just remembered all of that?”

Nautica groaned. “Stop rubbing it in! _Anyway_! … The words we got were _creation,_ _five_ and _judgement_.”

Perceptor looked at the rock. “It gives us exactly nothing.”

“Aside of the fact that whatever this is has some connection to Cybertron's distant past?”

He raised his optics back at her. She had a point, of course. A very strong one. Caminus, like the other Metrotitans, left Cybertron around ten million years ago, which would place it around the time of the Knights of Cybertron. He would not have made that connection himself because no archaeological digs have found anything even resembling the carvings, and most artefacts of the thirteen Primes have not been seen by anyone who could tell the tale.

Fortunately, one of those people had just shown up and provided a direct link of one to the other. Perceptor liked direct links. They made things simpler and so much clearer.

“Have you asked Caminus about any of this?” he said.

“Yes,” Nautica said. “But he wouldn't tell us anything. Even the Cityspeaker couldn't get any information no matter how hard she pleaded.”

“Then we best inform Rodimus at once,” the mech nodded, shutting the scanner off. “We have a long course to plot if we are to follow this lead.”

“Yeah. It's the only one we've got.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering if I should tag this fic as "other" rather than M/M since, you know, in this universe they're supposed to be genderless, but tagging TF porn is already as confusing as it gets...

Chromedome did not feel like going anywhere. Sometimes he just wanted a quiet night in, or at least the period that would have been night had they remained on a planet. Stretched out on his berth, barely long enough for him, he waited for Rewind to return with the drunks he volunteered to fetch.

The minibot came back shortly with two glasses of engex. Swerve was very much against taking drinks out of the bar, but Ten was not, so taking them directly to a hab suite proved easy. Not that they would not return the glasses later.

Rewind set the drinks down. “You're comfortable.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” the surgeon retracted his mask and smiled at his Conjunx. “I can laze around for a while and a share a drink with greatest mech in the universe.”

The minibot climbed onto the other berth. “Still need to work on your compliments,” he said.

Chromedome sat up. “Hey, I'm trying.”

“Not good enough, maybe,” the archivist replied, and even though a smirk could be heard in his tone, the mask and visor hid his expression completely.

But the other mech was not bothered. They knew each other long and well enough to know exactly when arguments where brewing, and that was not it. They played the game often.

And the surgeon loved it.

“And what are you going to do about it?” he asked, his optics lighting up just a bit brighter under his visor.

Rewind reached into storage in the small table between their berths, and then there was a sudden, strong crack. He stood up on the berth, the only way he could tower over his Conjunx, and cracked the whip again. The noise was loud enough to be heard outside and in the neighbouring quarters, but they never really cared about that. Not like anyone ever approached them to tell them to quiet down.

Chromedome looked at the whip in his lover's tiny hand, already feeling his port moistening under the closed codpiece. “You're going to beat me?”

“You deserve it,” the minibot said, his voice firm and expression still hidden, making his emotions unreadable. “Don't you?”

In a manner practised over years of playing the game, the larger mech slid off his berth and sat on his heels on the cold floor. “I do.”

Another crack of the whip in the air. “For?”

“For talking back at you.”

The whip struck his arm. “For talking back at whom?”

With a groan Chromedome immediately corrected himself: “At my Master.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

The other mech lowered his head. “I will please my Master in any way he wants.”

Hearing that, Rewind climbed off the berth and shuffled through their private storage, and procured a few pieces of sturdy cables. He moved behind his kneeling lover, pulled his hands back and tied them together. Not too tight, mostly because Ratchet had quite enough of having to paint their various body parts after they went too far, but tight enough for him not to slip free.

The archivist then pressed himself against Chromedome's back, his codpiece brushing over the other's fingers, and whispered into his audial: “Remember the safeword, Domey...”

“I'm fine,” the surgeon said, rubbing that tiny codpiece as best as he could with his hand twisted back like that. “I'll say it if I need it.”

“Good,” Rewind said in that practised firm tone and struck his mate's thigh with the whip. “Then try harder.”

Chromedome obediently rubbed harder, moving his fingers clumsily. They got in each other's way as he tried to coordinate without seeing them, and tried to fit them over that tiny plate. A quiet moan rewarded him and he felt his own codpiece starting to leak lubricants.

“Don't open,” the minibot said, one of his little hands gently stroking the pulsing wires on his submissive's neck.

Chromedome shifted slightly to close his legs a bit tighter. “Yessir...”

Rewind moved back a few steps. “Buck your aft up.”

He struck said aft the moment it was exposed to him. He was rewarded with a moan and the image of his lover trembling, of him subdued and at his mercy. So vulnerable. So wanting. Just for him.

The archivist felt himself open and his unit sprang free from its confines. Of course it was not big enough to properly fill the much larger mech, but they found ways to deal with that, too. So many things he could do to that beautiful, whimpering bot, so many ways to tease and torture him...

He knew Chromedome loved them all. He saw him overload while having all those things done to him many times before. And he almost never used the safeword.

The minibot moved in front of his Conjunx and stared at him for a moment, face on the floor as he kept his aft in the air and still trembling after the slight beating he got. So erotic. So wonderful. And all his, only his.

Rewind grabbed his lover's chin with both his tiny hands and pulled him up. Having retracted his mask he kissed the surgeon on the lips, a bit less clumsily than the last time they tried it. He invaded that warm, welcoming mouth with his tongue and felt his unit twitch at the new, unexplored sensations.

“Good boy...” he said, smiling. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Master...” Chromedome moaned, shifting a little to help himself with the uncomfortable pressure against his codpiece. “I want to suck your wonderful unit, Master...”

He was pushed lower and held on the level of that tiny unit. “You may,” he heard and immediately wrapped his lips around that shaft. Rewarded with a loud moan, he sucked, easily fitting the whole thing inside his mouth. It pulsed with excess fluids and throbbed with each gentle suck. The pressure against his own plating became unbearable, his arousal almost too great to control, but he focused hard on the job at hand to keep himself from disobeying orders.

But it was difficult. He could smell oils that dripped from his mate's port down his legs and he really wanted a taste of that-

His codpiece opened despite his best efforts, and the unit was abruptly pulled out of his mouth.

“What did I tell you not to do?” Rewind groaned and grabbed the whip again. He struck the other mech across the back. “Bad boy, Domey.”

“I'm sorry, Master...” Chromedome groaned at the blow that followed.

“Look at me,” the minibot ordered, an angered frown on his face. “Look at me and tell the camera what you are.”

The surgeon look up, flushed with heat and with oils dripping down the corner of his mouth. “I'm a bad boy,” he said, staring straight at the camera. “Forgive me, Master, I'm a very bad boy...”

His aft was struck with the whip once more. “And don't you forget that.”

“No, Master...”

Hearing that, Rewind reached for a smaller piece of cable and tied it tightly at the base of his lover's unit, making him squirm. “That should help,” he said, a broad grin on his face as he laid the larger mech on his back. Chromedome moved clumsily without the aid of his hands, but he could not stop himself from smiling at how much all of that turned him on.

The archivist gently touched his Conjunx over the inside of a thigh. “Remember, Domey, safeword.”

The surgeon groaned. “I don't need no fragging safeword!”

The minibot gave him a satisfied grin and slid two fingers into him, delighting in the mewls and whimpers, and quickly began stretching the port even further. Three fingers. Four. Finally, his entire hand went in, and only then did he feel actual pressure from the wiring as it tried to accommodate him. With such a difference in size between the two of them, this was the most he could do, unless they finally got to purchasing dildos.

He moved his hand slowly, carefully hooking the fingers and slightly scraping the inner wires, and all their little pleasure nodes. That sent Chromedome into spasms as he tried to cope with the sensations with his ability to overload cut off rather painfully.

The surgeon cried out as a tiny, soft tongue flicked over his external node, and then again. He managed to say his lover's name, and a rougher scratch inside his port made him immediately correct it to “Master”.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity to the restrained mech, the hand was pulled out of him, leaving his port empty and wanting. He got more almost immediately when the tip of his pulsing unit was slid into a hot, wet archivist.

Rewind was tight; the size difference could be felt by them both even after all this time together. The tiny port stretched slowly, but without problems, taking the entire swelling tip in. the rest of the shaft pulsed and throbbed below, wanting to be freed from the painful bonds and to be accepted into such a welcoming little port as well.

Sadly, it would not fit. The archivist moved his hips slightly up and down, squeezing the tip and prompting delicious moans from his submissive. They had to take what they could from it, and while Rewind was so full his abdominal plating was pushed a bit forward, Chromedome's pleasure focused only at a small part of him. But it was so intense it most definitely made up for it.

“Master...” he groaned, visibly shivering in his bonds. “I can't hold...”

The smaller mech sneered at him, moving his hips in a circle for a moment. “No, you don't...”

“But you feel so good...!”

That earned him a slap across the face, with that same whip his dominant liked so much. Not hard, no; neither of them could ever really hurt the other, but the hit was enough to make him shut up. And to make him forget about that pressure about his unit for a short moment. Short enough for Rewind to overload first.

He whimpered and whined on top of his Conjunx, the wires inside him pulsing with excess Energon and squeezing the tip so hard it had to be painful. And it was, but Chromedome loved it that way. He spilled his fluids inside, gasping for air to aid his cooling. Everything went white for a moment, and when he finally calmed down, Rewind was kissing over his neck.

“Are you okay, Domey?” he asked softly.

“Course I am,” he said, a tired smile on his face. Only when his hands got untied did he realize that somewhere during that intense ride the wire restraining his unit had to be removed, for it was no longer there. Good thing, too. He sort of ached, but it would pass soon.

Rewind cleaned them both up. He always took care of that after they had their fun, and when he wiped Chromedome clean of all the oils he caressed his plating and plant soft kisses every now and then, just to make sure his beloved really was alright.

Cuddled up to his sparkmate, the minibot said quietly: “I'm so glad we have each other again...”

The surgeon wrapped his arms around him. “I won't let anyone hurt you. Ever again.”

And they drifted into recharge together, like so many times before, feeling the warmth of each other's Sparks.

 

As the door to the bridge opened, Megatron turned to it with a frown on his face. “Finally,” he said. “You two took your time.”

Magnus and Rodimus entered, both rubbing their optics.

“'Sup,” the younger captain said.

“... Honestly,” the ex-Decepticon rolled his optics. “ _You_ I can see oversleeping, but Ultra Magnus?”

The mech in question said nothing, finding it best to keep quiet and leave the  awkward explanations to his partner. He was better with words, and with people, after all.

Rodimus took a longer moment to say something. “I was behind on reports. Magnus decided he's not gonna leave 'till I finish them.”

Megatron shook his head as he turned back to whatever he had been doing with Nautica before. Neither could hear what he mumbled, but it sounded a lot like 'sure he did'.

“... So what's up?” the other captain said, realizing that his original question remained unanswered.

“We know where we're going!” Nautica chirped before anyone else could say anything. “Perceptor and I traced that stone's mineral composition to three planets, and we've already got a course plotted-”

“You sound excited,” Magnus said, rubbing his temples. His head ached, and the female's high pitched monologue did _not_ help.

“Aren't you?” she blinked in honest disbelief. “Isn't exploring new places and finding out new things always exciting?”

Even Megatron shook his head, in harmony with the others, making her deflate.

“Not when it's a waste of time,” he said. “So let's hope this leads us at least a bit closer to Cyberutopia.”

Rodimus frowned. “As if you care,” he said, but the other captain chose to ignore it.

Robbed of most of her enthusiasm, Nautica moved to the navigations console. “Ready to quantum jump when you are.”

Before the order was issued, Magnus raised his hand. “Wait. Skip the first planet.”

“Because?” she asked with a sigh.

“Because I've been there before as the duly- as the Enforcer. There's no life there. There's never been.”

Without a word the femme started adjusting course and coordinates to skip the first destination. Rodimus, meanwhile, simply sat back in his chair.

“So we won't find whoever carved those rocks there,” he said.

“Obviously,” came from Megatron. “And we don't need more dead rocks. What's on the second planet?”

“Organics,” Magnus said. “That's... about as much as our database says. Apparently they're not hostile, but not overly enthusiastic about mechanical life forms.”

“We're going to need to be very careful, then,” Rodimus nodded.

Megatron glanced sideways at him with his expression rather blank. “Which pretty much means you're staying.”

“Oh, very funny,” the other captain rolled his optics in contrast to muffled snorts from Nautica.

The former Decepticon headed for the door. “I'm going to refuel, so that I don't drop like you two are about to. Call me when we're ready to go. Oh,” he paused by the exit. “A word of advice. Next time you stay up to write reports, don't be so damn loud.”

And he left behind thick, tangible silence.

 

The planet was breathtaking. Its numerous mountain ranges and clear bodies of water barely stood out of the thick vegetation, untouched by any signs of civilization. Some of the crew it reminded of the wilder parts of Earth, despite its life being so vastly different – so much larger, in such different shapes.

But their initial orbital scans pointed them towards what could only be called a settlement. In proportion to its quite tall inhabitants – not unlike Earth's reptiles if they suddenly decided to walk on two legs – it was too small for a town, but too large to be called a village. And oddly enough these people had technology, and a lot of it, but seemed to be using it with remarkable restraint.

Their houses were of an odd combination of stone and metal, their tools complex and sophisticated, yet the whole thing managed to blend in with the surrounding wildlife with astounding ease, not disturbing it seemingly at all. Even more amazingly the reptilians had equipment capable of observing the stars and the planet's orbit. They were not surprised to see alien visitors on their world, even though no one exactly came forward to greet them. Since the mission was far from diplomatic it did not matter much, especially since the party that arrived was more or less free to move around.

And they knew better than to cause any trouble. The average reptilian was about as tall as Cyclonus and as broad in frame as Megatron.

“This is fascinating!” Rewind chirped to himself more than anyone else, already feeling the urge to just run off and peek into every possible nook and cranny just so he could have it on film.

“This is unnerving,” Riptide said, a small grimace on his face.

“I don't intend to keep us here any longer than necessary,” Megatron said. “We should split up, we all know what we're looking for. Anything that could relate to the stone or the markings is to be reported immediately.”

As the mechs divided themselves into smaller groups without a word and headed into different directions – something they seemed to have had a lot of practice in, from how easily they did it – Rodimus glanced at his co-captain with an eyebrow raised.

Megatron looked back. “... What?”

“You're going to have to come with Magnus and me,” the younger bot said. “Otherwise you'll be alone and I don't trust you with that.”

Ultra Magnus looked around, hoping to find a fourth that they have missed. Sadly, there was just the three of them, and a distant noise of something that was almost like a cricket.

“Oh, joy,” Megatron rolled his optics. “Let's go and get this over with then...”

“Seconded,” Rodimus said and just took off in a random direction, forcing the other two to follow him and wonder in what trouble he is going to get himself into this time.

 

Tailgate hummed to himself as he took in the alien beauty of the surrounding wildlife.

“Isn't this fantastic?” he asked, glancing up at Cyclonus, whose expression was just as stone as always.

“It's going to take forever to scout this entire planet for a piece of rock,” he said rather flatly, making the minibot instantly deflate.

“We know it's somewhere in the settlement...” he said, the sparks given out by his optics dying out, leaving just the dim glow of a bot who lived longer than most. He kept staring at his room mate as the warrior shuffled through foliage and pushed his way past thick branches, to no avail. Finally, he stopped.

“What is it, Tailgate?” he asked without turning to look at him.

“Are you mad at me?”

There was a moment's pause. “No,” Cyclonus said, his tone unchanged, even though he meant for it to be softer. Something inside him just kept kicking the back of his mind, but he could not make out what it meant. He really did not want to be angry. With anyone. He did not want to be disappointed, and yet he was. With himself, and himself only.

“Then why aren't you talking? I mean... why are you talking even less than usual?”

The warrior glanced at him, expression blank, and caught those bright, shimmering optics. He has looked into them many times before and something seemed different about them at that very moment. They used to be full of childish joy, of innocence only one untouched by the harshness of life could possibly have. It was as if something was missing from them.

“I don't have much to say,” he finally replied, and watched Tailgate's shoulders sag.

“You never do,” the minibot said. “And it's okay!” he added quickly, raising his hands as if in defence. “But... I just... wanted to make sure everything's alright between us...”

Cyclonus gave him a nod. “It is.”

Tailgate nodded as well, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Good. Really. Good.”

Only then did both of them realize that they had, in fact, stopped walking somewhere during that conversation and were now just standing and looking at each other. And just when the little Autobot turned to continue on his way, a small embarrassed blush peeking from over his faceplate, Cyclonus said:

“Does he make you happy?”

That made Tailgate stop dead in the middle of a step, and his Spark contracted in its casing for a split second. “Why- how can you be so blunt?”

“I'm always blunt,” the other said, making those few steps towards him. “I see no reason to cover meaning under layers of unnecessary words.”

The reply took a longer while to come, but whether it was because the smaller mech did not speak or whether his own mind refused to register it, he could not really tell. “It's always nice to know someone cares about you...”

And to that, he could only say: “Yes.”

Quite suddenly – perhaps a bit _too_ suddenly – Tailgate's face brightened up again and his optics flickered a little more like they used to. “Thanks for asking,” he said, or more like chirped in his usual, cheerful tone. Cyclonus blinked at that abrupt change of tone. “I know you're worried about how I feel even if you're not going to say it, and... and it makes me happy to know you care enough to be concerned about my happiness.”

The warrior felt his body moving despite him not telling it to; his head nodded, and the words that came out of his mouth did not sound like they were his. “I am,” he heard himself say, “and I'm glad you're doing fine.”

Tailgate said something, but he could not hear what it was. It felt like someone poured coolant or liquid nitrogen all over him. And some of it must have seeped into his Spark casing, because everything hurt in that distant, dull way. Of course he never spoke of his feelings openly, to anyone. And he only recently began understanding what they really mean. But they came out all wrong. They got misinterpreted, and now... were his chances gone...? How was he to confess to everything when words never came when he needed them?

“Oh, finally, fellow Cybertronians!”

That one sentence brought him back to reality, and in the back of his head he thanked Primus for breaking that train of thought. They heard more words before they could see who was saying them, as the mech made his way through the lush wildlife that surrounded the settlement.

“Thank whatever powers you believe in, I've been stuck here for so long I was starting to forget my own name...”

He looked at the two of them, staring wide-eyed, and stopped talking for a moment. He looked familiar. So familiar that it was almost scary. His colours were different, of course, and his optics – no, his entire frame – radiated something that could only be called confidence. The smile that he greeted them with, although now gone, was filled with genuine joy and warmth. But even that could not divert attention from the familiar markings, the patterns on his plating, and that very much unique moustache.

“... Please tell me you have a way off this planet,” the mech said.

“Who... are you?” Tailgate blurted.

The question was met with a frown. “Surely you have heard _something_ about me... Haven't you? How long have I been here?” he shook his head. “My dear Autobot, I'm Dominus Ambus.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, not only did this take forever, it's shorter than usual... Sorry, it's just one of those chapters you need to get out of the way. And I'm in a pretty bad place right now, so excuse the worse overall quality.

Questions, questions everywhere.

Where have you been? What happened? How did you end up on that planet? What have you found out on the way? And for each reply Dominus Ambus gave there was yet another question, following in a seemingly endless queue. But he would not turn a single person away, no, not him. Seated comfortably at Swerve's, half-empty glass before him, Rewind on one side, and Ultra Magnus on the other, he talked. He answered each and every question that came his way, or at least those he had actual answers to.

He ran, was what he told them, constantly glancing at wide-eyed Rewind beside him. He tried going back to take him with himself but the functionists got to him first, and he had no choice. He had always intended to go back but was unable to because the pursuit damaged his ship. And even though he got away, and managed to hitch rides every now and then, somehow his path never turned to Cybertron again until that very day, when two ancients found him.

Everyone around him listened. Even Megatron blended in with the crowd, sitting somewhere in the back and being probably the only one without a drink. Swerve did not notice, of course, having his hands and his bank account completely full with everyone else there. And no one else seemed to notice that, either.

Something seemed a little too convenient about this whole thing. Surely he could not have been the only one to take note. Of course the story made sense, at least up until the point when Dominus Ambus managed to board a ship and did not return to Cybertron. Or perhaps he was just being paranoid; it came in a revolutionist's job description. Especially if his so-called right hand was named Starscream.

Everyone else seemed to think that someone as famous and distinguished as Dominus Ambus was above criticism, and for a moment Megatron almost agreed with that. There was someone else like that on board as well, decorated, known throughout all of Cybertron, and friends with everyone he came across. Much to some people's chagrin, Thunderclash's reputation was spotless.

But then again, there had been one more person like that on board before as well, or at least so the captain was told.

Someone who turned out to be a liar.

Focused on either talking with the newly arrived hero, or lost in their own thoughts, no one noticed Chromedome quietly slip out of the bar.

 

At some point, of course, Dominus had to excuse himself as well. The crowd gave him enough space to exit the bar, but he did, on his way out, wave at one person to come with him – Nautica. Much to some other people's surprise, of course. Both Rewind and Magnus followed her following him, and heard his reasons, at least the way he explained them.

He could be of use to her, he said. Whatever they were looking for on that Primus forsaken planet, he might know something that could show them the way on. She told him about the rock and its radiation and how they figured out where to go.

And Dominus smiled.

“It must have been fate then,” he said. “The Hand guided you towards me, child.”

Nautica did not return the smile. Everyone liked taking credit for all the good things they had done and being commended for it, especially after having spent their entire lives on a colony that valued arts over her science. Hearing her efforts attributed to some force she was not exactly sure actually existed... hurt. Physically. Her Spark contracted just a bit in her chest.

“We need to talk to Perceptor then,” she said, forcing that expression of hers to change back into a more cheerful, if clearly fake one. “The lab is this way.”

And they simply left, the small mech trying to prod his new companion about the research that had already been done, but also about the ship itself, the crew and their purpose in going wherever it was they were headed for. Both of them seemed oblivious to the fact that they had been watched.

Rewind looked up at Magnus. “... Doesn't he seem... different to you?”

“He's been there for who knows how long,” the larger mech said, but not after a moment's hesitation.

“I know, but...”

Magnus shook his head. “It's him,” he said, placing a hand on his own chest. His Spark pulsed gently, and felt somewhat warmer than before. “Even if he changed, it's still him.”

Rewind did not reply. He simply gave the officer a nod and headed off in the direction of his own quarters, his mind racing. He tried hard to stop old recordings of Dominus – some of them with himself, Rewind – from playing out from his data banks; they used to be painful to watch, and now they felt just... wrong. All this time he had sought his old Conjunx, and not once did he stop to think of who he would find.

Why was he not happy...?

 

Minimus, too, felt that all of it was wrong.

He carefully locked the door to his hab suite and got out of the armour quickly, perhaps in a bit of a rush. There was no denying it, his brother had been found, he was alright, alive, unharmed... Even if he acted differently, it was still him. And a change in personality could have been expected, actually, after such a long time and things he had gone through. Many of which he was likely not telling about.

Minimus would have to get to know his brother again as if they were strangers. If that thought alone was not bizarre in itself, it quickly dawned on him how difficult it would be. It was never easy to get along with the great goodie-two-shoes Dominus. For a moment he thought that maybe it would be easier now, but he quickly concluded that no, it would not. From the way his brother spoke to people, how he answered their questions...

Arrogance. He used to be, well, perhaps not humble, but he knew his worth, and knew he had earned it. He sometimes used his status in an upper class to help those below – Rewind in particular – but now what Minimus saw was pure, baseless arrogance. He expected everyone on board to have heard of him, and more than once referenced his own work that many of the crew had not read; especially some of the MTOs, who were never given the chance nor the time to educate themselves like the forged ones. But, sadly, there was more.

Cynicism. While no one doubted that Dominus remained the selfless person he used to be, his comments on what others made his brother's Spark contract. He did not seem to buy into Rodimus' reason into heading out for the quest (and Minimus had to admit, although not out loud, that he was probably right); he commented on Cyclonus' hand-made horn the moment he heard the mention of Clavis Aurea; and not once did he speak to or of Megatron.

Holier than thou. That one Minimus was almost expecting. Dominus often sounded like he felt he knew better than the people around him, but a long time ago that stemmed from nothing than the desire to help them, often by giving them advice. It was usually not unwelcome by other people, but now, after all those years, it seemed that Dominus started actually believing that he does, in fact, know better than everyone else. Which was curious, considering how much he drank during that welcome on board party at Swerve's... despite having written, and firmly believed, that pleasure distracts from grander things.

Something was so very much not right, Minimus thought as he looked at the Magnus armour. Either with his brother's mind or with his intentions.

What was he thinking? How could he doubt his brother so much? He loved him. He did, he always did, and Dominus never did anything to harm anyone...

The armour stared at him with its empty optics.

Minimus used to believe in Tyrest, too, and he was wrong. Tyrest changed. He used to distrust Megatron, and day by day he found more reasons to think he was wrong. Megatron changed.

First he lost his position at the Tyrest Accord, then his identity as Ultra Magnus, and soon he was going to lose being Minimus as well. He would soon be forgotten in the shadow of his brother again, of the mech who looked just like him but was always better at everything.

He stared at the Magnus armour for a longer moment, and lashed out at it, toppling it over onto its side with an angry cry. Surely someone had to hear the clanking noise it made, but Minimus did not care. He laid down on his berth and hoped to soon slip into recharge, fighting tears.

 

Cyclonus made his way back to his hab suite. He swooned a little, having drunk quite a lot at Swerve's; not enough to knock him out, but enough to let him focus on something else for a change.

He expected Tailgate not to be in the suite when he got there. He has not slept there much since he began dating Getaway, and that unnerved Cyclonus. At first it was merely what he could now identify as jealousy – the little cleaning bot was his entire universe. All the other friends he made on the ship came later, and they were not as close to him. In fact, Tailgate was the only one the old warrior felt comfortable around enough to speak of things he never told anyone else, even if it felt like his friend does not realize just how valuable he is.

It was Cyclonus' fault, of course. He had always been terrible at expressing himself, and even worse at speaking about his feelings. So no one could blame Tailgate – who had literally no experience in life before they met – for not understanding what Cyclonus wanted him to understand. For not realizing what feelings were being held for him, the love that the warrior only just became acquainted with.

But it was also his fault that Tailgate was now in a bad spot. He could easily see that in those shining optics and heart it in that voice – Tailgate was not happy. When he spoke of Getaway he sounded unsure, and there was a barely audible quiver in his speech. There was something very much not right, and since Cyclonus failed to protect him, failed to teach him how to tell friend from foe, it would be up to him to make things right.

To make Tailgate happy again.

He stopped. There were noises coming from the corridor to his left, one of the smaller ones that few people used. It led to a storage area, if his drunk mind recalled correctly, so people only entered it on those few occasions when something was needed. But judging by the rather... particular sounds, that was not the case. Was he hearing things?

Giving in to curiosity, he proceeded on to check what exactly was going on, even though something told him that perhaps he should not. Then again, if someone was engaging in... private activities in a public place, they risked being walked in on and should have realized that.

But what he saw was far from what he expected. There were two figures in the shadows of the unlit hall, but they were not entirely obscured by darkness. While Cyclonus could not see exactly, he could tell that their lips were locked in what appeared to be a passionate kiss.

He turned around quickly, his Spark pulsing. That-- what was he to do with that? Should he tell...?

Should he pretend he did not see Dominus and Chromedome kiss?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Yeah. Not much to say. Glad I finally got this done. I couldn't even be bothered to betaread this, just... whatever.
> 
> If anyone figures out the incredibly obscure reference in the middle of the chapter, you win nothing. If you can tell me where the fuck I pulled that from because I can't remember for the life of me, you win a shoutout.
> 
> Great thanks to my boyfriend for providing me with an amazing idea for the rest of the story.

 

“The frag are you doing?!” Chromedome asked, pushing the other mech away as his mask snapped back into place.

Dominus responded to that with a chuckle. “Oh, don't tell me you didn't enjoy that.”

“That-- I didn't-- the blazes is wrong with you?!”

“Nothing,” the minibot stepped further away, allowing the surgeon to hastily leave and head to wherever it was he intended to go. “You're free to go, and I won't mention anything about this to Rewind.”

Chromedome slowed down a bit. “You won't?”

Dominus smiled behind him. “Not a word. But it would be a shame if he found out about some of your other secrets, wouldn't it?”

The surgeon span around on a heel. “How do you-!?”

But the other mech was not there anymore.

 

Cyclonus groaned and looked away as the bright optic was shoved right in front of his face.

“You are a royal moron,” Whirl said.

He was shoved away. “And you are blocking my drink.”

The watchmaker sat next to him, allowing him to sip whatever high grade he chose as his poison that particular time. “You're still a moron.”

The other mech did not look at him, nor did he reply to that this time. He just continued to drink in relative silence, as much as was possible at Swerve's, anyway, with the constant chatter of other people somewhere in the background. Cyclonus kind of liked this sort of thing; even though he realized he began to enjoy company much more than he used to, he still liked his privacy. And a crowd could provide just as much as a locked room, because people hardly paid attention to you if you were just one more face among many.

But Whirl did. Especially if you were Cyclonus.

“... Stop staring at me,” the warrior finally said.

“Will if you stop being a royal moron.”

There was no reply until an empty glass rested on the counter. “Would be easier if you told me exactly what makes me such a moron,” Cyclonus raised a hand before he could be interrupted, “but I'm quite sure I don't want to know.”

Whirl pulled back a bit. “Weee-heeell now,” he huffed. “That's fine, I don't need to say it, everyone and their gyrocompass knows already anyway. You're the last one that needs to catch up.”

Red optics drilled into him, and the chopper actually inched a bit further away.

“I know exactly what you're talking about,” the warrior said, standing. “And it's none of your business. He's already got someone, anyway.”

“... Yeah, Getaway. That'll end well.”

Cyclonus shot him a glare so drilling that even Whirl inched away. “And what's that to you? Since when do _you_ care?”

There was no reply, not at first, when the two just kept staring at each other. Even the chatter of other patrons in the background seemed distant, as if coming from behind a wall. Swerve took the chopper's empty glass and started cleaning it, but neither of them seemed to notice that.

“Because Getaway's an even bigger aft than I am,” Whirl finally said. “And I don't like competition.”

“I'm sorry,” the other mech raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to laugh?”

“Dunno, are you?”

Cyclonus looked away, but sneered when he realized there was not much left of his drink, and that he would be far too sober unless he got another one. But if he did, he would not hear the things that he needed to, even if they came from someone he really, really wanted to punch through the floor.

“Tailgate has the right to choose for himself.”

“Oh, of course,” Whirl nodded perhaps too eagerly. “Cause we all know he's experienced enough to make the right choice there. Of course.”

No reply.

The single, piercing optic continued to stare at him, and he refused to stare back.

“You know, I honestly don't get you,” the chopper said. “You nearly died for him, how many times was that? More than once. You'll take a blow for him, you literally gave him your Spark-”

“Your _point_?” Cyclonus finally growled.

“- but you refuse to protect him when he's being struck where it hurts the most.”

He stood, slamming a currency chip onto the counter, not bothering to check how much was on it. Probably way more than he needed to pay. Who cares. He had enough of listening to Whirl, _Whirl_ of all people, trying to tell him how relationships worked. The guy who openly admitted the only person he gives half a shit about is himself. The nerve.

“Tailgate might not know much about this,” Cyclonus said, his voice low; if he raised it even a bit he risked betraying just how angry he was becoming, and he did not need that, “but neither do you. I have no reason to listen to you.”

And he simply left, struggling to keep himself from punching something. It became increasingly difficult to keep himself in check recently, with his thoughts wandering to territories he had never even considered before. It was like trying to find your way in the mist, and everywhere he went there was either someone with conflicting directions or a dead end.

He did not hear when behind him Whirl said, quietly: “Yeah, you slagging moron. I know something.”

 

Megatron stared at the datapad. And typed. A few letters, at first, then paused for a while. Then typed again, a few words this time. And a few more.

The hab suite, empty yet surprisingly cramped, was filled with nothing but the quiet clicks of his fingers against the pad. It has been so long. Four million years? More. But finally he picked up a pad again and started writing once more. No one wanted to listen to any of his old poems, and no one would probably read this one either, but right at that moment, he did not much care. Somehow, the thoughts were flowing, directing his hand by themselves, as if bypassing consciousness. He had no idea why. Has the revolution, and the war, taken it al out of him? Did he to surrender and remind himself that he never intended to become a warlord to be able to find the words again? Or was it the brand on his chest, once a symbol of oppression, a mark of hatred, recently so alien, and now almost... welcome, that gave him a new perspective he needed to see himself for what he used to be?

Whatever the case, the words were his again.

He almost jumped when someone knocked on his door.

“Wh-o is it?” he asked, composing himself.

“Dominus Ambus,” a voice replied, muffled by the thick metal separating them. “May I come in?”

He paused, optics slightly narrowed. “Yes.”

The minibot entered, giving a small bow of respect. “Captain.”

Megatron heaved himself off the berth, putting the datapad down on it. It was the only piece of furniture in the suite, anyway. “What is it?”

“I came to offer my apology.”

Eyebrows were raised. “Apology?”

“I realize I caused something of a commotion,” Dominus said, glancing briefly at the lone pad. “Both by my rather sudden arrival and during the, well, I hesitate to call it a welcome party... I realize some of your crew were somewhat... overjoyed to have me here, while others, quite the opposite. And I am also well aware that for you as captain that could cause quite an issue, so please, allow me to apologize and offer whatever assistance I can.”

Megatron listened to that intently, trying to sift through the words. They sounded too... deliberate. Too sincere. Oh, of course he knew the great Dominus Ambus by reputation, everyone did. And he was not buying that for a second. What people said about you was one thing, they tended to omit some things and focused on what they wanted other people to know about you; but nobody is that perfect. There had to be a flaw.

A flaw that he was not seeing yet. Something was very much not right.

“I don't see how you have anything to apologize for,” he said, somewhat slowly. “You're a fellow Cybertronian and that should be reason enough for us to assist you.”

The minibot smiled. “And for that I am grateful. But, if I may be so bold...”

_Here it comes._

“... Yes?”

He slowly turned to look at the bed. “I heard someone mention, in passing, about your... passions.”

Megatron stiffened. He had no idea how he should react. Even before the war very few people were interested in his poetry (damn you, Impactor), and his other writings were outright illegal.

“May I?”

The captain felt his Spark clench just a little bit.

“Sure.”

Silence fell as the minibot read, his expression blank and impossible to read. Was he wrong in allowing him access to that most private part of him? Did he just set himself up for more mockery from someone whose written work counted among the most quoted on Cybertron?

Megatron stood there and waited, fighting the urge to snatch the pad away.

 

Perceptor scolded himself internally. And again. And then again, for good measure. What was he thinking, allowing Brainstorm access to the navigational computer? Things blew up around Brainstorm, and while the frequency of said explosions was difficult to predict, unfortunately nothing was inoculated against them. As the smoke cleared up it became painfully obvious that the readings on the computer had to be somehow wrong, as there was no way they could be in the vicinity of such a large object.

“I mean, wow,” Nautica stared at the readings. “Imagine if a thing this big really _was_ within our sensor range. A planet that wasn't on our star charts? How crazy is that?”

“Well, we _are_ in a region that Cybertronians have rarely visited,” Perceptor admitted hesitantly, peering below the panels to where Brainstorm tinkered with the hardware. “... Are those the main power conduits?”

“Yes,” came a muffled response.

“Are they all coiled up into one big lump?”

“Yep,” the other scientist said, pulling out a bit to look at him.

“If that clogs the Energon flow it could blow up the entire bridge!”

Brainstorm waved a hand at him, reaching back in with the other. “Chill, Percy, I've got this.” And with that, he tugged at one of the conduits that stuck a little bit out, perhaps more forcefully than anyone else was comfortable with, wide optics watching him with what could only be horrified fascination.

Nautica remained silent; it was Perceptor, once more, who spoke: “You don't think that this one little-”

He did not finish, as one stronger pull made the conduit unravel from the others, and then another followed, and another, untangling the whole lump. The wires neatly fell apart next to each other.

“... I hate you.”

Allowing himself a grin of triumph, hidden by his mask but nonetheless very recognizable by the gleam in his optics, Brainstorm dived back in under the panels. Before his colleagues could even comprehend just what happened and how come that occurrence violated just about every law of nature that they could think of, he emerged back out and closed the panel. “There, done.”

“O-oh,” the femme snapped back to reality with the click of metal, and moved back to the readings. “Still not working, though.”

“Scan again,” Perceptor said.

She did, filling the following silence with quiet clicks of keys on the computer. “... Still the same thing. Maybe we really _are_ close to something that just isn't on our maps?”

“It's not impossible,” he agreed, shooting a sideways glance at Brainstorm. “And much more probable now that our scanners are not on fire.” When his response was met with an almost adorably innocent shrug, he added: “I'll inform the captains.”

Nautica raised her hand. “Wait. It's moving.”

“Say again?”

“It's moving. I don't think it's a planet.”

The other two huddled by the display, perhaps a little too close for comfort, to see for themselves. And indeed, the object that they detected and thought to be a result of malfunctioning systems indeed seemed to be traversing space. The computer calculated its size to be that of a medium planet, close to that of Earth – which some of those on board where familiar with – meaning that whatever it was, it was large enough to have its own gravitational field strong enough to capture smaller objects in it. But the speed at which it was moving surpassed that of a celestial body that large; not by much, but still. And its path appeared, at least so far, too straight to be an orbit, and it laid too far from the nearest star. At least at first glance.

“That is so cool,” Brainstorm said.

“That is impossible,” Perceptor said.

“That could be _it_!” Nautica piped up. “I mean, come on! The Knights flew around space in Titans, right? Doesn't this look like the mother of all Titans to you?”

There was a moment's pause. “I'll run additional scans. You two get the captains.”

 

Megatron gripped the sides of the berth, the heat slowly becoming more than his body could take. It was incredible. Better than he could have ever imagined. The deliberate caresses, the gentle bites, and oh Primus, how he moved his hips... It was as if Dominus knew his body better than he did himself, easily finding every spot that he needed to touch, every plate that he needed to tease, and that way in which he made sure his unit is pressed so firmly against the top of his port... So small, and felt so fantastic, and then that bit where he circled it around inside him...

Too much. Too good. The captain moaned and shivered and trembled, keeping his optics shut in embarrassment at how vulnerable he was from all the pleasure. He could not even tell how long it took him to reach his limit, but he guessed it was not very long, not with how absolutely amazing his partner was.

He let out one final moan at the sudden heat inside him as he was filled.

Dominus smiled at him, and he forced himself to return that smile.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Captain.”

“Do you say that to everyone you bed?” Megatron asked, his expression going blank again. “Because for someone who writes so much, you sure don't sound romantic.”

He earned a soft, gentle kiss on the neck. “You weren't complaining fifteen minutes ago.”

He was about to say something, but did not; his port suddenly felt strangely empty, and somewhat cold, and in a long forgotten surge of shame he found himself wanting more.

Thank whatever powers that be for the comms.

“I'm being summoned to the bridge,” he said, a shade of relief in his tone. “I'll get this cleaned up and head there, so you don't worry about it.”

Ambus raised his eyebrows, but simply nodded at that. “If you say so, Captain. But don't hesitate to call on me again,” he said, sending him a very confident smirk as he headed for the door.

The moment said door locked back in place, Megatron shot up from the berth in a rather desperate search of something to clean the mess up with. How could he have allowed that to happen? How did he let his guard down so easily? What the _hell_ was going on?

He knew something was off about Dominus Ambus from the very second they picked him up on that accursed planet, but this... he could not have expected that, could he? That was not the great writer, philosopher, romantic Cybertron venerated and remembered. That was not the mech who wrote of pleasures as things distracting from things much grander. No, something was very, terribly wrong, and he, Megatron, allowed himself to be manipulated. He allowed lust... longing... to cloud his judgement. Words were a very powerful weapon, and he knew that more than most. He just felt ashamed that he let himself fall to his own tricks.

One thing was for sure, he thought as he finally regained enough composure to head for the bridge. He would need to get his hands on a copy of the _Ascetic Cybertronian_ again, and soon.

 

When he finally reached the bridge, Rodimus was already there, trying to filter out anything of sense from what the three head scientists were saying. Nautica, predictably, was giddy about whatever it was the readings showed; Brainstorm even more so, but in his usual “it can probably kill us in a very painful way and that's so awesome” way; and Perceptor seemed to be the only one left with enough circuits still wired properly to focus.

“Captains,” he turned to them. “I think we are finally making what we could label as progress.”

“What've you got?” Rodimus asked, glad that someone said something that was intelligible.

“A ship!” the femme squealed. “A giant ship!”

“She doesn't just mean giant,” Brainstorm said, waving them towards the navicomp in an almost gentlemanly manner. “She means a ship so gianormous it has its own gravitational field.”

The captains did not make it to the panel, frozen still by that last revelation. “Say that again?” Megatron raised his eyebrows.

Perceptor pulled up a holographic display. The visual was... half-astonishing and fully disturbing, judging by everyone's expression. It was difficult to say without a frame of reference, but it really did have to be huge. It was roughly spherical in shape, other than places where bits and pieces stuck out like a sore thumb, or perhaps like mountain peaks on an actual celestial body. There were grooves and canals all over the surface, not unlike Cybertron, but the difference was very obvious to anyone who laid eyes upon it.

Its surface was a patchwork of many different metals, from shades of silver to chrome to brass, that looked like they were almost forcefully welded together where they did not fit. Many of the canals ran smooth, but some did not, zigzagged and ragged, and those laid where the various parts of the ship connected. Very few lights illuminated it on the surface, with just barely enough for it to be visible and a strip of stronger lights running around what could be the equator.

But on its northern hemisphere some of them seemed to form a shape.

“Is that what I think it is?” Megatron asked, focusing on that one spot on the hologram.

“A glyph!” Nautica squealed again, making Brainstorm next to her cover his audials for a moment. “Like the ones from the temple and on the rocks and-”

“Point taken,” Rodimus cut her off. “It's connected. Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?” he shook his head. “Right. Time to gather a team then, probably a big one, judging by the size of that thing...”

The other captain looked at him. “We're going in?”

Rodimus smirked. “We're going in.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

With so much ground to cover the decision was made that they would enter in teams of three – big enough to be of help to each other in case of any trouble, but not big enough to draw attention and get them in any trouble. Splitting volunteers – and “volunteers”, because of course not everyone was as willing to go as some others, and of course Rodimus was not exactly listening – proved to be the challenge. Radio silence would have to be maintained, at least as much as possible, just to keep the risk at a minimum. They have not exactly picked up any life signs on that giant thing, organic or mechanical, but then again they could not perform any comprehensive scans unless they circled it thoroughly, preferably more than once. A first reading was always potentially faulty, so each team would have to consist of people of various skills that would complement each other in various ways.

  
So, naturally, not all of them did.

  
That was of course merely because it was just impossible to spread the skill sets around evenly. And considering how grand a discovery the ship was – even if it ultimately proved to be unrelated to the Knights of Cybertron – the sooner they moved out to explore it, the better.

  
Cyclonus was not too invested in it himself, but as the most seasoned warrior on board, he offered his participation, which was happily accepted without second thought. But he immediately changed his mind on the entire trip when he found out what a team was forming.

  
Getaway volunteered to go alongside Tailgate.

  
So Cyclonus insisted to go with them.

 

The ship had no visible docking bay or anything the like where they could easily enter, but as they took the shuttles closer they were able to pick up what looked like ventilation ducts or exhaust vents, or something to that effect. Of course flying into something like that would be ridiculous and dangerous, Magnus said, and ridiculously dangerous, Megatron agreed. So Perceptor did some scans that confirmed that indeed the ship's engines, its propulsion systems and whatever other systems in the vicinity of those vents were offline. Nautica confirmed that with additional scans. Indeed the vents were cold and should take them somewhere into the hulking ship.

  
So they went in.

  
It was pitch black, and their front lights showed them only what they already expected – that the ducts were narrow, metal and old, and somehow showed no signs of corrosion. There was obvious dirt, and some signs of damage – battle damage, perhaps? - but nothing that would indicate the ship was anywhere where an atmosphere would cause the metals to deteriorate.

  
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the vent opened up to a larger chamber filled with old pipes, panels and some equipment which at first glance looked much smaller than they would expect for a ship that size. They were able to settle the shuttles there, although in a somewhat cramped manner, and exit. The room was critically eyed by Perceptor and judged to be some sort of cooling unit; the pipes that ran along its walls and the ceiling began in gigantic vats suitable for holding liquid, but were all connected at the top, as if only meant to gather fumes, and emptied into the vent they just came through. At one point, perhaps, the vent was closed off by some gate which got lost along the way. The console and other equipment, which they noticed as they arrived was indeed smaller than they would expect. The room felt overwhelmingly large even to them, who stood huge among many races in the galaxy, but the control unit was suitable for some of the larger Cybertronians, the likes of Megatron or the current Prime. A closer inspection revealed it to be of slightly different materials – it appeared a little newer, and welded to the floor. A late addition.

  
All in all, Perceptor concluded with unhidden fascination, the technology was heavily and incredibly outdated.

  
With radio chatter ordered to a minimum, the crew members proceeded out of the chamber and began spreading into a maze of enormous corridors. As they proceeded lighting their way into the darkness, each hallway branched into more, and eventually each team got separated from the rest as planned. And following the light they carried with them that could barely illuminate their next step was overwhelming, omnipresent silence, broken only by their heavy footsteps, metal on metal.

  
The captains were one of the unusual teams in that they travelled as a pair, having chosen not to take anyone else with them. Of course it was a security risk, Megatron voiced that concern quite clearly and had it backed by Ultra Magnus. Rodimus, of course, heard their every point carefully, nodded in acknowledgement, and proceeded to happily ignore it.

  
“We should've ordered Dominus to stay on the ship,” Megatron said eventually, his voice slightly echoing in the huge corridor.

  
The former Prime turned to him, only to see his face barely visible in the dim light. “He knows something about all this.”

  
“Without a doubt. But I don't trust him.”

  
Rodimus stopped, drowning them both in even deeper silence. “Magnus does. And I trust Magnus.”

  
“Of course you do,” came with a nod. _You're bedding him_ , went briefly through Megatron's head, but he managed to dismiss it. “I do too,” he said instead, much to the other mech's surprise, clear on what was visible of his face. “But I'm not so sure we should trust his judgement on this. Everyone just... accepted the fact Dominus Ambus essentially came back from the dead after being missing longer than some of the crew have been alive, and no one stopped to ask themselves some basic questions, Magnus chief among them. Of course he didn't. It's his twin brother. I can't really blame him.”

  
Rodimus listened to all that with his expression slowly shifting from genuine surprise to something akin to understanding. Megatron... had a point. Not only that, he had... compassion. Things one would normally not put in the same sentence with his name, and yet there he was, displaying not only that he still employed the tactical mind that got him so famous/infamous during the war, depending on which side you were on, but that he understood why things went the way they did.

  
And there was something in his optics when he spoke about Dominus. Some sort of... flame, but he could not quite put a finger on it.

  
“What exactly are you suggesting?”

  
“That he knows more than we think he does and maybe he won't want us to know everything.”

  
The younger of the captains paused, turning those words around in his head a few times. “... Let's try that again. What are you suggesting?”

  
Megatron let out a groan that was perhaps a little too loud, as it echoed off the walls more than his words did. “That he led us here for some purpose.”

  
“... What purpose?”

  
“I don't know. But I'm quite certain it has little to do with the Knights of Cybertron. Perhaps- are you on your comm?” he sighed.

  
Rodimus waved a hand at him. If someone broke radio silence, it must have been urgent. “It's Chromedome,” he said, and his optics widened just a little bit. “He says we're not alone in here.”

 

Dominus walked between Chromedome and Rewind, and quite deliberately. Each time the two tried to manoeuvre around him, he would just squeeze in between again, sooner rather than later. He kept looking ahead for the most part, as if not to see their expressions visibly irritated even despite being hidden by masks and visors, but once in a while he would turn to Rewind – throwing some loose remark, as if the surgeon was not even there with them. Not once did he look at Chromedome or say anything directly to him.

  
Eventually, though, the surgeon said something to _him_.

  
“Do you _mind_?”

  
Dominus looked up at the larger mech, as if not understanding. “Hm?”

  
“You've been shoving me aside and butting into me ever since we split up from the rest.”

  
Rewind also looked up at his Conjunx, but he said nothing. He had feared this- not conversation, no, confrontation, but he had not imagined it would come up so violently.

  
“I'm merely trying to protect my beloved.”

  
“... Protect?”

  
It was Rewind who spoke, and he was let behind a few steps as the other two did not immediately realize he had stopped.

  
Ambus gave him a nod, his expression as stern as only someone from his house could manage. Behind him, hoping rather desperately that the creeping shadows of the hallway hid it from any optics, Chromedome shivered.

  
“I can't let him take anything more from you, my sweet.”

  
“What are you talking about...?” the archivist asked, his voice rising a pitch. He turned to his Conjunx. “What is he talking about?”

  
The surgeon did not respond; not immediately. He looked at that tiny face, hidden from view, and knew exactly what expression it carried. The optics were probably very wide, ridges angled downward in fear, mouth tightened in anticipation. An expression he had seen far too many times before, unobscured, after nightmares, those in dreams, data or reality.

  
Before he managed to form what could pass as an answer, Rewind turned to Dominus again in rising panic.

  
“Ah...” Ambus said, and the corner of his mouth rose so slightly it could not be seen in the dim light. “So you did not consent to the injection after all...”

  
Rewind whimpered. “Injection?!”

  
Chromedome took a very careful step towards him and reached out with his hand, but stopped just short of touching him. “Love...”

  
“What have you done?!”

  
And again, there was silence. Or would have been had Dominus not broken it by saying: “I noticed the scars on your neck.” Surprisingly, his tone was soft, despite the almost tangible electricity between the other two. “I'm sorry I told you like this, but... someone has to keep you safe, my darling.”

  
The tallest mech looked at him, turning quickly as if struck by lightning. “What were you-”

  
“What did you take from me?”

  
He turned back to Rewind. “Huh?”

  
“What. Did you take from me?”

  
He looked into that small visor; the optics began shining through it with what could be either fury or desperation, or perhaps both, and tears slowly dripped from below it. Chromedome clenched a fist, but unclenched it quickly. “He only could've found the scars if he was deliberately looking for them,” he said.

  
That was enough to shock the archivist; or at least he appeared shocked. He fell silent for a short moment, so the other mech pressed his advantage.

  
“He could only see them under UV light. What was he doing with that around your neck?”

  
Rewind wanted to respond. He tried to find that moment, that precise time, when he and Dominus were doing something – in a lab, yes, it must have been in a lab, where else would they need ultraviolet light? Surely his former lover asked for assistance, for some information on a particular topic that must have been buried deep in his vast database. When was it, probably within the last two, three days, could not have been more than that because Dominus had not been on board very long, right?  
The only answer he kept coming back to was “I don't know”.

  
As he searched and searched and searched in growing desperation, his Spark pulsing faster, something broke the silence for him.

  
“... Did you hear that?” Chromedome asked.

  
Something scraped against the metal walls, but they could not tell where it came from as it echoed off the enormous hall. It sounded almost like it was made of metal too, but it came faint, perhaps from far away. Almost on instinct Rewind inched towards his Conjunx, the anxiety from the revelation of a few moments ago now at breaking point, and the surgeon wrapped a protective arm around him.

  
“It sounded like...” the minibot managed, his voice low, as if he did not want to attract the attention of whatever it was they heard. “Claws.”

  
And there it came again, closer. Something was moving, like it supported itself on a metal wall by whatever served for its arms. But there was more. Something sloppy, squishy, organic.

  
In the darkness, somewhere around them, something slithered.

  
“W-wait...” Rewind whimpered, clinging to his sparkmate harder. “Where's Dominus?”

 

Cyclonus was watchful.

  
Not entirely of his surroundings, though. It was difficult to discern anything in what little they could illuminate as it was. No, what interested him most was Tailgate.

  
He walked a bit behind the other two, letting them both lead the way and forget that he was there. Or at least letting Getaway act like he was not there. An exploration mission such as this was hardly a good place or time for idle chatter, but that never stopped someone of his lax and excessively irritating attitude. He would look around what little there was to see in the amazingly empty hall and comment on things entirely unrelated, which were concerning him and Tailgate alone. At some point Cyclonus started wondering if he was being ignored or taunted.

  
But the minibot beside Getaway... did not act the way the old warrior expected. After multiple times of having been assured that everything is alright and that the relationship makes him happy, he thought he would hear Tailgate respond with just as much prattle, in a tone that betrayed a smile so broad it would threaten to pop from under the faceplate.

  
Instead, nothing.

  
Not a word. Tailgate was not even looking at his partner; he kept his optics fixed ahead at the darkness, and each time Getaway as much as brushed a hand against him – let alone actually touched him – the minibot would shiver. Once or twice he tried to inch away from his boyfriend, only to have an arm wrapped around him, and to be pulled closer again.

  
“I think that's enough.”

  
Getaway stopped in his tracks, forcing the minibot to halt with him. He glanced over his shoulder. “Beg your pardon?”

  
Cyclonus was glaring. “I said that's enough.”

  
“We're turning back?” A smirk was almost tangible in those words. “I had no idea you're this scared of the dark, Cyclonus.”

  
The red optics flickered, ominous in the surrounding darkness. “No. Unhand Tailgate.”

  
Tailgate uttered a high-pitched whimper, which went completely ignored. “Again,” the escapist said, his tone completely dry this time. “Beg your pardon?”

  
“You heard me well. Or would you rather talk to my sword?”

  
Tailgate whimpered his name, but once again went ignored. Though Getaway appeared to have heard it, as he glanced over at the minibot, his optics narrowed with something close to anger.

  
“There's no need for that,” he said in an overly sweet tone that in no way matched his expression. “He's my boyfriend, he has no problem with being held like this. Isn't that right, sweetheart?”

  
But no reply came, even when the grip around Tailgate tightened somewhat. As the escapologist was about to say something else to break the overwhelming silence, the smaller one slid out from under his arm and took a few steps away, much to the surprise of the other mechs.

  
“I-” Tailgate began, but cut off. “I don'twanttobeyourboyfriendanymore,” he blurted, the words blending together more than they should because of how they echoed off the metal walls.

  
Cyclonus could not hold a grin. He seldom smiled, or showed any emotions whatsoever, but this was one of the few occasions where he allowed himself to. He achieved his goal after all; the minibot just needed a little push and he chose his own way. The right way.

  
A thought in the back of his mind said that hopefully that right way included Cyclonus at some point.

  
“Say that again?” Getaway asked, his tone suddenly flat.

  
“I don't want to be with you anymore,” Tailgate repeated, moving closer to the warrior, as if seeking protection. He did not sound any less confident, but his hands were trembling ever so slightly.

  
“So you choose... him, of all people.”

  
“I-” the smaller mech said, but was silenced as Cyclonus raised his hand.

  
“Did you hear that?” he said, his voice low. The two did not respond to that, listening in instead, but for what they were not sure.

  
Somewhere in that dark, unwelcoming hall, echoed a scratch of something against metal. And then another. And another, from an unknown direction as the reverberation caused it to come from everywhere at once.

  
“What is that...?!” Tailgate whimpered, unable to raise his voice above a whisper more out of fear than survival instincts.

  
Cyclonus took a step towards him. “Don't be afraid, little one. Whatever it is, we'll be ready. And we should make our way back to the ship.”

  
A series of rapid nods answered him, as the smaller mech was not about to argue against something that sounded both sensible and like it was going to get them out of the humongous ship. But after several quick movements of his head, he paused.

  
“... Where's Getaway?”


End file.
